


The Favor of the King

by thingswithwings



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Flying, Intellectual Property Rights, M/M, Oaths & Vows, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Service, Wakanda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 20:29:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7728694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingswithwings/pseuds/thingswithwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>T'Challa – King T'Challa of Wakanda, the Black Panther, Guy Who Dresses Up Like a Cat to Fight Crime or Possibly for Other Reasons, Who the Fuck Knows – T'Challa corners Sam during one of their visits to check in on Bucky and says, in a mild voice that should not sound as threatening as it does, "We need to talk."</p><p>"We do, huh," Sam says, looking him up and down.  He's just a king and a superhero and a genius inventor and possibly the richest man alive, looking way too fine and wearing the hell out of a tailored three-piece suit; Sam can hold his own against this guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Favor of the King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> With many thanks to livrelibre and eruthros, who helped me come up with this concept and did awesome beta work after it was done. 
> 
> Note that this is a cobbled-together version of Wakanda from a lot of versions I've seen (especially influenced by EMH and the BET series). Not super faithful to any one source.
> 
> Set post-Cap3, spoilers for the movie.

T'Challa – King T'Challa of Wakanda, the Black Panther, Guy Who Dresses Up Like a Cat to Fight Crime or Possibly for Other Reasons, Who the Fuck Knows – T'Challa corners Sam during one of their visits to check in on Bucky and says, in a mild voice that should not sound as threatening as it does, "We need to talk."

"We do, huh," Sam says, looking him up and down. He's just a king and a superhero and a genius inventor and possibly the richest man alive, looking way too fine and wearing the hell out of a tailored three-piece suit; Sam can hold his own against this guy.

"We do," T'Challa affirms, as if immune to the sarcasm in Sam's voice. "If you don’t have any more pressing engagements at present."

Sam supposes this could be a reference to the fact that he’s currently lounging in a chair on one of the palace balconies and eating a popsicle. Which is kind of disrespectful to Bucky, maybe, since he's currently a popsicle himself, but it's hot in Wakanda in August and the nice lady had asked if she could bring him anything. Even the Wakandan popsicles are strange and unexpected, flavored like fruits Sam doesn’t recognize, creamy and fancy and not much like the thing you’d get from the bodega on a hot day in Harlem.

He considers ditching it in the trash. He stands up holding it instead, intending to bring it along.

"Where are we going?" he asks, as T'Challa turns and starts to walk away. He doesn't even look back, just expects Sam to follow him. Joke's on him; Sam has no problem following that ass.

"To discuss your flagrant breach of my intellectual property rights," T'Challa replies, over his shoulder, and Sam could swear that he can see him smirking. 

Sam's popsicle falls off the stick and splatters juice all over his pants on its way to the ground. He grimaces.

"I'll take care of that, sir," the nice lady from before says, appearing out of nowhere. She takes the stick gingerly from his hand. "If you would follow the king."

Sam brushes at his sticky pants and follows the king.

*

"Really," Sam says, when he gets a look at the holographic blueprints that T'Challa brings up for him. "This is your beef? My wings?"

"My wings," T'Challa replies. "As you can see by the date on these designs."

"Look man,” Sam begins, then falters as T’Challa draws himself up to his full height and adopts a very mild and very kingly expression. “Your highness,” Sam corrects himself, annoyed by the urge he feels to bow. “I used tech that the Air Force gave me. I was told that the designer of the wings was Tony Stark. If that isn’t true, your problem is with him, not with me.”

It feels like the wrong response. But Sam doesn’t want to believe it, that the wings he’s been flying around on for years could’ve been stolen, and stolen from Wakanda. It’s too easy to believe, too easy to imagine, and Sam doesn’t want it to be true.

“I am going to broach the matter with Stark and his legal team, I assure you. Also the American military.”

“Okay, so . . . ” Sam hesitates, feeling the bottom drop out of his stomach as he realizes why T'Challa would need to talk to him. “Are you asking me to stop using them?”

“Yes. I am asking, for now. But I can move on to more legally binding methods if need be.”

Sam rubs at the back of his neck and sighs. “I can’t – that would make sense if someone had stolen a patent on like . . . an iPhone, or a car or something,” he tries, “but seriously, I am the only person in the world flying these things right now. The Air Force doesn’t even use them anymore. It’s just one guy in a set of wings, it’s no threat to you.”

T’Challa’s cool exterior cracks a little at that, and his mouth pulls down in a half-frown. Sam’s really gotta stop looking at his mouth. 

“That is, in fact, the problem,” he says slowly, and yeah, Sam can tell that this is bothering him a lot. “One man, a great hero, an Avenger, flying my technology onto the front pages of all of the major newspapers, with Stark’s name branded on the side.” He reaches out, a casual gesture towards the wings Sam isn’t wearing, the place where the Stark Industries logo is painted on the left wing. “It does not help my case.”

Sam wants to be flattered by the king of Wakanda calling him a hero, like some childhood fantasy come to life from the pages of a worn-out, handed-down storybook. When he was a kid, hearing the stories of this one unconquered corner of Africa, he always wished he could come to live here. He always fantasized about Wakanda as a place where you’re free, where the world makes sense and you get everything you’ve ever wanted. 

But Wakanda, as it turns out, doesn’t care what he wants, and doesn’t owe him shit. T’Challa might be calling him a hero, but he’s also going to take away one of the most important parts of Sam’s life.

“You think it’ll help your case to ground me?” Sam tries, desperately. He spent years without the wings, without the feeling of lifting off into the air, without that freedom, without that calling. And he might be a criminal and a traitor, he might be on the run and exiled from his own country, he might be thousands of miles away from his family and his friends and his work, but at least he has Steve, and he has his wings. The prospect of either of them – both of them, maybe – being taken away is devastating.

T’Challa blinks at him. “Now that we are no longer in opposition, I do not care what you do, Mr Wilson,” he says, gently. “Fly if you like, but not with a stolen Wakandan prototype.” 

Sam closes his eyes, briefly. He doesn’t want to be part of the long history of people who’ve tried to steal from Wakanda; it’s galling even to think of himself that way. But he’s not superstrong like Steve or spy-trained like Natasha, and the wings were his way of keeping up. Being useful to the only people he has left. Time was, he could’ve just gone to Tony for an upgrade, but now . . . 

“Please,” he says, dropping any attempt at coolness, any pretense that he has a right to the wings. “Please, it’s – I need them.”

T’Challa shakes his head. “I am sorry, Mr Wilson. Perhaps, if Stark is reasonable, we can come to some agreement that will return your wings to you. But for now they are under Wakandan guard.” He narrows his eyes. “I trust I do not have to tell you that it would be unwise to attempt to get past a Wakandan guard.”

Wakandan guards, from what Sam can tell, are all terrifying giant women with sharp eyes and sharper spears. The spears might be ceremonial, or they might be full of lasers or something; it’s hard to tell with Wakandan stuff. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, helplessness boiling up inside him. “You don’t have to tell me.”

T'Challa nods once, satisfied, as if he considers the whole thing over and done with. As if it’s easy to destroy what’s left of Sam’s life and then get on with whatever other king business he has for the day. 

Sam doesn’t bother to say anything else, just turns away from T'Challa’s stupid handsome king face and gets the fuck out of the room. He’s all too aware that T'Challa holds the power here and that, if Sam stays, he’s gonna let his temper get away from him and say something disastrous. Instead, he spends the next two hours walking – some would say stomping – the palace grounds, angry-admiring the foliage and the statuary and the giant terrifying women who don’t bother to pretend they’re not keeping an eye on him.

He wonders if T’Challa assigned them to keep an eye on him. Fucking kings. Sam hates kings. This is why Sam likes democracy. Or he would, if they could ever get it going in America.

He hates Wakanda, too, he decides suddenly: all the green spaces and the futuristic technology and the weird food and the women with spears and the millions of happy, easy-going black people who don’t have to give a fuck about the outside world or what it thinks of them.

After he gets done walking and cursing the king and cursing the country and cursing fucking Tony Stark, he takes a few deep breaths and goes back to the suite he and Steve are sharing in the palace. He finds Steve finishing up a call to Natasha. Sam tells himself to be cool, ease his way into the topic, try not to bombard Steve with the story, but as soon as Steve hangs up he looks up at Sam with an expression of dismay.

“What’s wrong?”

Sam figures it all must be showing on his face, and seeing it reflected back to him from Steve, he can’t keep it cool; the story spills out of him, the whole thing, how T'Challa is going to keep him grounded, how there’s no way for him to get back up in the air and be useful to the rest of them. Steve nods along, eyebrows furrowed, but he refuses to get anywhere near as mad about it as Sam would like.

“Sam, there’s always a place for you on the team. You’re more than just the wings to me, you know that.” 

“Thanks, man, I appreciate that,” Sam forces himself to say. “But – I mean, it’s like if someone took your shield – ”

Steve’s eyes dart to the left, and Sam remembers.

“Oh, shit,” he says. “Shit, sorry, man, I don’t know why I said that.” It’s so hard to imagine Steve without his shield that Sam finds himself forgetting sometimes. He wonders if Steve does, too.

“It’s not important,” Steve says, with that Depression-kid self-abnegating smile on his face. Sam loves and hates that smile. “Though it’s funny, I’ve been thinking about how the shield came from here too. From the vibranium mine.”

“Maybe T’Challa would’ve taken your shield, if you still had it.”

“Maybe he’d give me another one, if I were worthy of it,” Steve counters.

Sam blinks. “Is that – is that why we’ve been coming back here so much? This is like our fourth trip in six months, I was starting to wonder. You said it was to check on Bucky!” He drops his voice to a fake-whisper. “Are you trying to charm the King of Wakanda out of a new shield?”

Steve’s smile breaks out all across his face, and he ducks his head, and Sam has to remind himself not to watch this guy’s mouth, either. Lotta mouths Sam has to not watch, lately. It’s rough to be surrounded by so many hot superheroes all the time. 

“No,” Steve says. “I do wanna check in on Bucky. And T’Challa’s friendship is worth a lot to me, in itself. He’s a good man. I’m glad to have him on our side, these days. But it’s also – I got used to having a Stark around to outfit us.”

It should sound cold, such strategic thinking, finding a new tech genius to substitute for the old one, who was in turn substituting for his father. But on Steve the idea just sounds pragmatic.

“Okay,” Sam sighs. “So, you think T’Challa will make me a new set of wings?”

“My take on the guy is, he might, if he thinks you ought to have them,” Steve shrugs. “Now seems like a good time to ask. If he does agree to it, see if he’ll throw in a disc of vibranium more valuable than all the gold in the world for me to paint the American flag on and fling at people, willya?”

Sam laughs and squeezes his shoulder. He feels better, for having talked to Steve, back on solid ground at least, even if he’s still grounded. “You got it.”

*

By the next day, Sam’s cooled down enough to feel optimistic about the whole project. All he has to do is figure out how to convince T’Challa that they’re worthy of some kingly gifts. 

The problem, Sam thinks to himself, is that Steve’s really terrible at charming the King of Wakanda, in part because no one including Sam could’ve told that he was actually doing it. Sam isn’t necessarily the guy for long elaborate seductions himself, but he figures that they should involve, like, at least occasionally _mentioning_ what you want. Like, some of that _oh wow, vibranium is so amazing, I wish I still had some, specifically in the form of a shield_ stuff. 

Lucky for Steve, Sam’s on the case now. They’ve got four days left in Wakanda; that should be plenty of time to win over a king.

He starts by taking a seat next to T’Challa at the big palace lunch; the guy gives Sam an eyebrow, but Sam noticed on their previous visits that there’s no official seating arrangement, and none of the giant terrifying women pick him up physically and remove him, so he’s going to count it as one point to The Sam Wilson Charm Offensive.

“Good afternoon,” T’Challa says, a smirk hiding behind his lips. “May I ask what has made you so bold today as to put yourself by a king’s right hand?”

Sam smiles beatifically. “I heard it’s Wakandan custom to change up the seating every day.” T’Challa always sits in the same place at the big round table, but the people always move around him.

“No one Wakandan shall possess the ear of the King, for it is there for all the people to speak into,” T’Challa agrees. “Or so it has been said for many years.”

“Wow. That kind of – it gives me this image of like – ” Sam begins, gesturing with his hands.

T’Challa frowns. “I know, I know – ”

“Like if you had one giant ear, and all the people sort of come up to it and stick their heads inside and – ”

“The saying is better in Wakandan,” T’Challa sighs, obviously nettled. “I don’t know how anyone creates poetry in English.”

Sam laughs. “Never been much of a poet myself,” he says.

“No,” T’Challa agrees. “A soldier, and a healer, and an Avenger, but never a poet.”

“You looked me up,” Sam says, taking a sip of his tea. The Cucumber Cool Sam Wilson Charm Offensive, that’s what they’ll call it in the history books.

“I did.”

“You left out camp counsellor. I did that for three summers when I was a teenager.”

“Mr Wilson – ”

“Sam.”

“Mr Wilson, I have been a Wakandan prince, and am now a Wakandan king, and I serve my people as the Black Panther. Do you think that I am stupid?”

“I think you should’ve tried being a camp counsellor, it was a really great experience for me.”

“I know you are only here, taking this place of honor for yourself, because you want me to return your wings to you. And I am not going to do it.”

Minus one for the Sam Wilson Charm Offensive.

Maybe there’s a reason Steve’s gotten nowhere in four visits.

The servants begin placing the meals in front of them, as usual serving the king last. It’s interesting, Sam thinks, how rituals surrounding people with power are sometimes about denying them power in some way – like making a monarch kneel to receive their crown. In Wakanda, Sam’s noticed, it’s almost an obsession, showing up in every garden statue, every building, and every piece of furniture, like the round table they’re sitting at right now. Sam wonders what events in their history led them to this careful set of customs, where kings and queens are reminded in a thousand ways, every day, that they can be replaced.

“The people invite you to eat, my King, in exchange for your wisdom and your leadership,” says one of the council members, seated a few chairs down from Sam. Then he says something in Wakandan, maybe just repeating the same phrase. The English must be for their benefit.

“I accept this honor, and the responsibilities that come with it,” T’Challa replies formally, if a little stiffly, and Sam remembers that he hasn’t been king for long. It must’ve been his dad who gave that answer, all the time he was growing up, a prince of Wakanda. Then he, too, repeats himself in Wakandan, and everyone begins to eat.

Sam thinks it over, looking down at the array of sauces next to his plate and wondering how he’s supposed to use them. A prince, and a new king, and a superhero, a man with more money and more smarts than Tony Stark, and with the patriotism and pig-headedness of . . . well, Steve. How do you convince a man like that, who can’t be bought or turned, who could never need anything from you?

“I don’t want you to give me back my wings, your highness,” Sam says, softly, feeling his way towards the right answer.

“No? What a relief, then. You merely wanted to enjoy my scintillating company.” The woman seated at T’Challa’s left side – tall and terrifying, but not one of the guards, so far as Sam can tell – laughs.

“Well, sure,” Sam drawls easily, “of course I did. But also, I want you to build me new ones.”

This recaptures T’Challa’s attention and his gaze. His eyes lock with Sam’s and Sam doesn’t look down; he smiles, instead, as handsome as he knows how.

“Is that all?” T’Challa asks mildly. The king’s voice is quiet, reminiscent of all of the fair-minded, power-conscious Wakandan customs, and Sam wonders what history taught T’Challa to speak so softly.

“Well, I’d love it if you’d throw in a discus for my pal Steve,” Sam says, sitting back a little. He tries one of the crunchy things with the yellow sauce, and it’s pretty good, spicy. Still weird.

“I see.” T’Challa smiles widely, then, and Sam finds himself taken aback by it; he doesn’t know if he’s ever seen the guy do it before, and it looks ridiculously good on him. “Well then. Sam Wilson. Perhaps you’ll join me after lunch.”

He doesn’t wait for Sam to accept the invitation, like a normal non-king person might; instead he turns to the woman at his left and says something in Wakandan, and she laughs before leaning in to reply with her lips close to his ear.

The king’s ear. It doesn’t seem so silly, now he sees the policy in action. 

Sam wonders what he’ll have to do to get that close.

*

After lunch, Sam follows T’Challa down a long corridor to a room with a huge holographic screen in the middle of it; on the screen, Tony Stark is pacing. Sam starts to back away – it’s been months, but he’s sure that Tony’s still in no mood to see him, and the mood is mutual – but T’Challa gives him a sharp look and then gestures to a chair in the center of the room, where, Sam assumes, he’ll be in view of the cameras.

He hesitates.

T’Challa raises an eyebrow, and looks again pointedly at the chair. _If you want your wings,_ his expectant look seems to say.

Sam sighs and sits down. It’s not like Stark doesn’t know they’re in Wakanda anyway.

“Ah, Mr Stark, thank you for waiting so patiently,” T’Challa says warmly, striding into view himself and standing rather than sitting down beside Sam.

“T’Challa,” Tony replies flatly. “I’m only _waiting patiently_ on the line because we worked together recently and because – ”

“Because you want vibranium. Don’t romanticize it, Mr Stark.”

On the screen, Tony stops pacing and finally looks at them. “Is that fucking _Wilson_?” he asks, incredulously. 

“Yes. Who would, if necessary, be able to deliver testimony in a patent case regarding the wings that he flies around. The ones that bear my designs and your name.”

“Hey, wait,” Sam tries to protest, “I’m not – ”

Stark’s eyes narrow, and he interrupts. “Seriously? Wilson’s wings? That’s what this is about?”

“This is about your tenth such violation. The previous nine were engineers who could not afford to defend themselves in court.”

Sam’s known Tony a while, and he knows as well as anyone – as well as T’Challa, maybe – that a blow to his pride is one of the easiest to land, and hits him hard. 

“The military used to bring me crap and ask me to redesign it,” he fumes. “Rhodey’d show up with crackpot schemes they’d sourced for jet-powered roller blades and laser guns and I was expected to make them work.”

“The wings already worked when you got the blueprints,” T’Challa replies.

“I made _crucial design changes_ – ”

“If you refuse to concede in this matter, then that is something you will have to prove in a court of law.” 

At that, Tony’s gaze slips from T’Challa’s face and back towards Sam.

“And you, Wilson? You’re on his side in this? I guess I should’ve known.”

Sam can’t decide which of them he finds more annoying, but since Tony’s the one speaking to him right now, he settles on him for the moment. “Should’ve known _what_ , Stark? That I’d be angry to find out that the wings I’ve been flying around are stolen? Because I am. I’m angry.” He is, and not just because he’s been grounded; the injustice of it, that the military would use Tony to steal something Wakandan, boils up inside of him. He hates that he’s been a part of this. He wants his fucking wings back. He wants them to have never been stolen in the first place.

Tony waves a hand, like what Sam’s saying is meaningless. “Whatever. Didn’t seem to have that many questions about them while I was outfitting you. Maybe you’re just looking for a new guy now you don’t have me holding your monkey wrench for you anymore.” Sam feels his face heat at this suggestion, which is way too close to what Steve said the day before, that T'Challa could be their new engineer. 

“Can’t you just – Tony, if you give up the patents, maybe I could – ”

Tony interrupts him. “I made those wings. I don’t care what T'Challa’s told you, I took his clunky blueprints and made art. And if he’s taken your toy away, then I guess you picked the wrong engineer to ally yourself with.”

Sam feels it like a slap, and realizes that Tony’s still wildly angry – angry at Steve, at him, at the whole fucking situation. Sam can’t blame him. But it makes his heart sink to realize it, that Tony’s not going to be on their side anytime soon.

In his heart, Sam had already started hoping that Tony might eventually help them come back home.

Tony breaks eye contact with Sam, and his expression hardens as he looks at T'Challa. “I’ll see you in court.”

“I had hoped that we could resolve this matter more quickly and amicably,” T’Challa says, his voice like ice, and he must know that there’s no quicker way to Tony’s ire. It’s like standing next to Steve, in a way; T’Challa sounds polite and reasonable while he’s being a dick, and it makes Sam furious.

“Fuck you. Don’t call here again. How’d you even get this number?”

“How I got this number,” T’Challa replies, obviously getting angry himself, “is that I am smarter than you, and better equipped than you, and care nothing for your privacy. I look forward to any battle between us, legal or otherwise.”

“Is that a threat?” Tony asks, and Sam buries his face in his hands so he doesn’t have to see this anymore. 

“No. Simply notice that you are not welcome in Wakanda.”

The line goes dead. Sam doesn’t look up. It feels good to be in the dark, with his eyes closed and the weight of his head resting in his hands. It’s better.

“Mr Wilson?” T’Challa asks. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Sam says, into his palms. “I really needed to be roped into another feud with Tony Stark.”

“He was not very reasonable, I think you’ll agree.”

Sam finally lifts his head. “No, he wasn’t. And you’re an asshole.”

T’Challa laughs. “For trying to reclaim what was stolen?”

“For manipulating me. I never said I’d testify.”

“But you would.” T'Challa shrugs. “You are that kind of person. And I didn’t say that you would testify, only that you would be able to.”

“You can’t just – ” Sam sighs, forgetting what’s at stake, forgetting to be charming at all. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Oh, but I do,” T'Challa says. “I looked you up.”

“And you care nothing for my privacy?” 

T'Challa shrugs. “There was plenty of available public information on you. You’ve made an impression on the world, Mr Wilson.”

And there it is again, the temptation to be flattered, to accept the idea that someone like T'Challa would think highly of his impression on the world. Sam tries to hold out, but T'Challa seems . . . sincere. 

It’s really, really hard not to be flattered. Sam does his best. 

“And I did notice,” T'Challa continues, “that when it came down to it, you sided with justice, and against your old friend Tony Stark.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam mutters. “Bad habit.” He thinks about it, and starts to see the shape of the thing. “Wait, was this a test? To see if I was – if I would back you?”

“It was a call to Tony Stark to see if he would agree to some reasonable arrangement regarding the wings, a matter you expressed interest in.” He frowns. “And, while Mr Stark may have made some questionable decisions in the past, he is not wrong in his assessment, is he? That you and your friends are looking for a new engineer to outfit you? That I would fit the bill admirably?”

Sam licks his lips. “I – it’s not like we’re trying to trick you into it,” he says. 

“But neither were you informing me of your motives.” T'Challa watches him carefully, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I just wanted to build a relationship slowly,” he says. “We like you. Steve and Natasha and me. Bucky too, before he went under. We respect you and want you as our ally.”

T'Challa nods. “I hide you whenever you need it, and I protect Barnes. And you’d ask more of me?” 

At some point during their conversation, T'Challa stepped closer, or Sam did, and now they’re standing inside each other’s personal space. Sam realizes that he could lift a hand and touch him, right now, lay his hands on the king without any effort whatsoever.

“It depends on what you’d be willing to give. Or what you’d want in return,” Sam murmurs. And goddamn, but he could swear for a second that T'Challa’s gaze dipped down to Sam’s mouth before bouncing back up.

“To bear Wakandan tools is to represent Wakanda,” T'Challa says. “That is why I can no longer allow you to wear the wings that Stark made for you.”

Sam thinks about Steve’s old uniform, the stars and stripes representing America, how Steve doesn’t wear it anymore. How neither of them represents very much anymore, both of them exiles, men without a country.

“I get it,” Sam says, even though it breaks his heart to relinquish his claim on his old wings. “I do.” He can hear T'Challa’s breathing, at this distance, the wet sounds of his lips as they part.

“Hmm. That is a start,” T'Challa murmurs, searching Sam’s face. Then, taking a deliberate step back, he pivots on his heel. “Now, did you want to see the originals or not?”

T'Challa is, in fact, already walking away, so that Sam has to stumble along behind him just to keep up. “The originals?” he asks.

T’Challa just nods and leads them to one of the palace’s trippy future-elevators, where you step on a random square of floor and press a holographic button and are suddenly enclosed by white walls. Sam assumes it works by technology and not magic, but in Wakanda it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes. 

Their elevator unfolds them into a space Sam’s never seen before, a space that looks more familiar than anything he’s seen in this strange country. It’s a workshop, like Tony’s or Bruce’s, but also a little like the one his dad still has in the dilapidated shed out back of the house. It has that feeling in it, the one Sam remembers from his childhood: of work and sweat, of having been lived in. There are projects all over the benches, bits of machines in pieces, tools lying next to them, scattered notes and drawings strewn everywhere. It’s shockingly untidy, especially for a guy as buttoned-up as T'Challa seems to be.

“So this is where the King of Wakanda goes to let his hair down, huh,” Sam says. T’Challa looks up at him sharply. Sam shrugs. “This is the only room in the palace I’ve seen so far feels like a person lives in it,” he explains.

“You should see my sister’s studio,” T’Challa replies, offhandedly. He strides to the far end of the workshop, inputs a series of passwords and biometrics, and a part of the wall ripples away to reveal . . . 

They’re not the wings Sam’s used to wearing; he notices that immediately. They’re too small, too well-molded to the outline of the heavy mannequin they adorn. Sam realizes with a little shock that the mannequin is black, its skin like his, though the wings weren’t made with him in mind. These wings were meant to be placed in the care of a Wakandan. 

They’re gorgeous: sleek and long, with tiny interlocking metal feathers that ripple in response to T’Challa’s touch. They look flexible, almost malleable, as if they’re not frozen in form but still liquid, or still living, warm in a way technology can never really be.

And they gleam, in places, with a very particular metallic shine that Sam knows from being on the protected side of Steve’s shield.

“Touch them,” T'Challa says, and Sam does, can’t help himself, couldn’t stop if he tried: he reaches out and finds that the metal really is warm, and that the feathers really are so delicately made that they shiver like the feathers of a real bird.

“These are beautiful,” Sam breathes, stepping closer, looking at the wingspan and the harness and the control mechanisms. They’re similar to what he knows, but subtly different, too, all of it more like the aesthetic of the palace, of the city. They’re obviously, uncontestably, Wakandan, made by the hand of their prince.

“I’m very glad that you think so,” T'Challa replies, and he sounds proud, like Sam’s opinion might matter to him. “I must admit, it has been somewhat galling to see you flying around in Stark’s version. And not just because of the intellectual property rights.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Sam says, still touching the metal. In comparison to these, the wings Stark built were boxy and showy, meant more to intimidate than to fly. Like the Iron Man suit itself, Sam thinks, they were made in Tony’s image. “What makes them warm?”

“The heat bleeds from the vibranium fuel cells; it’s a particular effect of the metal that allows the feathers to microextend along the junctures of the – ” T'Challa trails off, then coughs, stopping himself, and Sam shoots an amused glance at him. Nerd king of Wakanda, maybe. “Well. That’s not important. Don’t worry, it isn’t radioactive.”

“Uh, good,” Sam says. He hadn’t realized that was a potential problem, but since he’s got his hands all over the wings he’s glad they’re not gonna kill him. He licks his lips. “Because I want to put them on and never take them off.”

When T'Challa doesn’t reply, Sam manages to drag his gaze away from the wings for a second to look at him. Here, in his workshop, he doesn’t look so kingly and aloof as he does the rest of the time; surrounded by his inventions, his passions, he looks more like a real person. And the expression on his face looks like curiosity.

“Why do you want them, Mr Wilson?” he asks, softly. 

Sam opens his mouth to reply, but can’t find the words, lost somewhere in his memories of flying, of saving lives, of soaring above clouds and diving for earth, of controlling with absolute precision his body in space. Of Riley, too, and their time in training, learning together how to step up off the surface of the Earth.

“Freedom?” Sam says, eventually, feeling like a dipshit.

T'Challa chuckles. “Anyone could say that.”

“I told you,” Sam manages, “I’m not a poet.”

“Perhaps you will have to become one. To convince me to give you this gift. Do you know what these are worth?”

Sam shrugs. “To someone like Stark, I’m guessing a lot. A lot of money.”

“And to someone like you?”

Sam licks his lips. A prince, a new king, a superhero, a man who can’t be bought or turned or convinced. Sam gives him the only gift you can give a man like that, which is honesty.

“A lot more than money. Everything else.”

T'Challa nods, but turns his gaze away, clearly unimpressed.

“I mean, you know how it is,” Sam tries, taking a step towards him. “You’ve been up with them.”

T'Challa glances back up at him. “No. I haven’t.”

“What?” The words don’t make any logical sense to Sam. T'Challa designed these wings, built them, perfected them, but . . . 

“I’ve never been up. I designed them for the Dora Milaje. The Black Panther stays on the ground, and in the trees, near to the people he protects.”

“Yeah, but you never even tried them?”

“No.”

“You’re not – I mean, I’ve seen you in action, man, I can’t think you’re scared of heights. Or of . . . anything.” 

“Well, I can’t say that I’m very fond of spiders,” T'Challa intones seriously, and Sam laughs, surprised. T'Challa laughs with him, and it’s an amazing sound, warm and rich.

“Jesus, who the hell are you,” Sam asks, throwing up his hands. “And do you wanna come flying with me?”

Now T'Challa reaches out to touch the wings himself, almost wistfully. Suddenly Sam feels the great injustice at work here: that the builder of these wings has never been borne through the air by them, never felt their true power. And he wants nothing more than to correct that injustice.

“I am no expert in their operation, only their construction.”

Sam grins. “I have a harness.”

*

So, much to the annoyance of the terrifying giant women, who seem to think that their king probably shouldn’t fly thousands of feet up into the air at the mercy of some American he barely knows, Sam ends up above the city with T'Challa in harness beneath him, his back pressed to Sam’s chest, his ear next to Sam’s lips.

T'Challa’s wings are much more responsive than even Sam’s latest Tony Stark upgrade, but it doesn’t make him overcorrect or throw him off; instead, it feels like the wings can anticipate his intentions and temper his mistakes, like they’re a part of his body. He wouldn’t be surprised to land and find that they had grown into his muscles and bones, their electrical impulses fusing with his own, and what’s more, he doesn’t think he’d mind.

They fly over Central Wakanda, and at first T'Challa is quiet, offering no words to the wind buffeting around them. But then, after Sam has done a couple of loops and is just considering some show-offy moves, T'Challa points. “There,” he says, and Sam obligingly moves into a dive, swooping down fast, and he knows he hears T'Challa gasp at the speed of their descent.

When they get closer, T'Challa holds up his hand again, this time pressing it warm against the plane of Sam’s chest. Sam slows, then hovers, wings and jets holding them suspended in midair. They’re above a set of craggy outcroppings, a strange void of buildings in the middle of the city, a scar on the landscape.

T'Challa turns his head, and Sam bows his, so that T'Challa’s words find Sam’s ear. “The Panther’s Palace,” he says. “Where my father brought me to train.”

Sam flies in further, and he can imagine it: a young T'Challa running and climbing through the difficult terrain, learning the flawless balance and control that Sam’s seen him use in a fight.

“He was the Black Panther too? Before you?”

“Yes.”

Sam sets them flying over the black rocks, the sheer cliffs and dark drops. “You know, that name means something different in America.”

T'Challa’s laugh is quiet and soft. “I know. We have often wondered if there was a Wakandan among their ranks. Or if the Panther God spoke to them. But perhaps it is just an irresistible symbol of power.”

Sam thinks about this, then takes them soaring back up, craving the cold wind against his face. “My uncle was one. A Black Panther. In Harlem in the sixties. Went to jail and everything.”

“And this birthright, you think, entitles you to these Wakandan wings?”

“No,” Sam says, frustrated. Every time he thinks he’s got a bead on this guy, that they’re understanding one another, he draws back and strikes. Maybe Wakandan princes learn fencing, too. “It’s just a – ” _connection_ , he wants to say. A connection between them, something that brings them together. “Coincidence,” he finishes.

They’re silent for a while, and Sam takes them over to the west side of the city, letting himself get lost in the smooth controls of the wings, the feeling of his body in the air. For all he knows, this is the last time he’ll experience it. He’s at the mercy of this king.

Below them, Wakandan buildings rush by: homes and workplaces and public spaces, full of people living their lives in peace and prosperity, or what looks like it, anyway. Despite all the fantasies he had as a kid, all the stories about Wakanda that passed among his family and his friends and his mom’s church group, Sam can’t imagine having grown up here, having known this country as his own. It’s foreign, in all kinds of ways that Sam never thought to anticipate.

“There is the Hall of Council,” T'Challa says, pointing. “And the Great Court. As a child, I came here to learn the law and history of the country. They look different, from above.”

Sam purses his lips, frustrated, half-aware that T'Challa is trying to appease him or impress him with this tour guide bullshit, wishing it didn’t feel so perfect, so formal, so stiff.

“Where’d you sneak off to?” Sam asks suddenly, against the shell of T'Challa’s ear. When T'Challa doesn’t reply, he adds, “when you were a kid, when you didn’t want to train or sit in some stuffy council meeting for hours, when you ran away and defied your father and got hell for it later but didn’t care. Where’d you go?”

The question hangs between them for a long moment, and then T'Challa points. Sam puts them into another dive, this one faster than the last, so that when T'Challa tries to speak the words are ripped away by the wind. They use gestures instead, T'Challa guiding them down into a green space out near the edge of the city’s light, a lush garden long overgrown, where Sam brings them down and feels his feet against the earth again. 

He unbuckles the harness and they slip apart, T'Challa’s weight and warmth no longer held against Sam’s chest. The wings fold behind him almost noiselessly.

“Here,” T'Challa says, and guides Sam back towards what looks like an old garden shed, run-down and made of wood like few things in Wakanda are. Or maybe that’s just the Wakanda he’s been shown.

The shed is empty inside, but smells musty, like earth and damp and disrepair. Light from the city filters in through the two small windows, but doesn’t reach the corners. Sam slips in and sits on the dry dusty floor, and after a moment, T'Challa follows him and sits to face him.

“What’d you do here?” Sam asks. T'Challa shrugs.

“What any boy does in secret,” he replies, and Sam’s mind fills with way too many improper thoughts before T'Challa adds, “I tried to avoid my destiny.”

“Oh, okay, right,” Sam laughs. “If you say so. I never had a destiny.” 

“No?” T'Challa watches him carefully for a moment. “Perhaps not.” 

Sam runs his fingers along the slats of the walls, the bones of the little building. They’re smooth with years of wear. Propped up along the wood slats are old toys – carved in wood, sculpted in ivory, some little handheld ones that might be eighties Wakandan video games. They’re arranged neatly, unlike the new toys in T'Challa’s workshop. “Did your father ever find you here?”

T'Challa’s smile, gleaming in the faint light that comes through the windows, makes him much too beautiful for this small, secret space. “No. But he knew. He told me, years later, that it was why he sent me abroad for school. He knew I would wander on my own if he didn’t afford me the opportunity to do it properly.”

“Maybe the poor man needed a day of rest,” Sam says, daring to joke about it. “I bet you were a handful at fifteen.”

Idly, T'Challa reaches up and touches one of the toys, a carved wooden model of the palace he now lives in. “I was,” he admits. “And still much of the council opposed my leaving. It had not been done in the long history of Wakanda, sending a prince away to foreign lands to learn. They felt it would divide my loyalties.”

“What did your father think?” Sam asks. He’s trying to imagine what it must have been like for T'Challa, suddenly alone in the world – in England, if Sam remembers right, because didn’t he go to Oxford? He’s trying to imagine whether the old king knew what kind of education he was really tossing his son into.

“King T’Chaka was a visionary. He opened our borders for the first time in centuries. He knew that to survive, to thrive, we must make alliances.”

“Is that why you keep inviting me and Steve back here?” Sam watches T'Challa’s face carefully. “Making alliances?”

“Yes. And no.” Then, smile fading, he asks, “Why do you want to know?”

Sam shrugs uncomfortably, honestly not sure anymore. “I enjoy your scintillating company,” he says, after a long count of seconds.

T'Challa huffs a laugh. “I see.”

“I’m trying to seduce you into giving me the wings.”

“You brought me to a dirty shed and asked about my dead father, and so I must inform you that you are not talented in the art of seduction,” T'Challa intones drily.

He points to the rings on T'Challa’s fingers. “I brought you here to steal your jewels.”

“The Dora Milaje would kill you and strew your organs across the palace steps for the birds to eat.” This with a sweet little half-smile, and Sam has really, _really_ got to stop watching this dude’s mouth. It should not be so sexy when a guy suggests disemboweling you.

Sam sighs, and remembers that honesty is his only currency. “I guess you got me curious, man. You’re a strange guy. You’re interesting. I wanted to know more about you.”

“There is a lot of publicly available knowledge about me,” T'Challa laughs. 

Sam shrugs, gestures at the shed around them. “Not this.”

“No,” T'Challa agrees, sobering. “Not this.” He reaches out, then, and puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders, and Sam has literally no idea if he’s intending to kill him or kiss him or _what_ , but then as Sam’s heart beats faster and faster T'Challa doesn’t do either one, just gazes into his eyes, so intensely that Sam holds his breath in anticipation. He speaks in low, serious tones.

“Tell me why you want them.”

“I believe in the work they let me do,” Sam breathes. It’s not the whole answer, though. But maybe a kid who ran from his palace to chill in a dirty shed by himself is the kind of person who can get why it’s not the whole answer. Maybe T’Challa understands about the need for escape.

T'Challa nods, then pulls away, and Sam breathes out again. “Very well.”

“Very well? As in, I get the wings?”

Standing, T'Challa replies, “Very well, as in, let’s go back to the palace and I will think about this idea. The idea of giving Wakandan tools to a foreigner, and to one who played a role, however innocent, in my father’s death.”

Sam swallows and pulls himself to his feet. “Thank you,” he says.

As they exit the little shed and Sam is hit with a cool, fresh breeze, he finds himself smiling. “And thanks for showing me your clubhouse, man, it was pretty sweet.”

“Is it a clubhouse when you go there to be alone?” T'Challa asks. 

“You weren’t alone this time,” Sam counters. He opens his wings, and T'Challa steps backwards into his arms, buckling himself in. 

“But until today, I always was.”

Sam snorts as he spreads his wings out behind him. “Yeah, poor lonely prince, I can just see it. Cooped up in the palace, all that terrible money and power, longing for freedom – ” A thought strikes him, and he laughs as they take off.

“What do you find so amusing?” T'Challa asks, and Sam has to laugh again.

“I just realized that this is one hundred percent the magic carpet scene from _Aladdin_. You ever see that movie? You get American movies in Wakanda? There’s this princess, Jasmine – that’s you – ”

“If I assure you that I have seen it, will you agree to stop recapping it?” T'Challa interrupts hastily, and it makes Sam laugh harder.

“There’s a song,” Sam manages, between giggles, as they soar up into the clouds and the city lays itself out like a star map beneath them. 

“I will beg you not to sing it,” T'Challa groans.

“Will you give me these wings not to sing it?” Sam asks, feeling the powerful tug of them against his shoulders as they move like wind through the night sky. Surprisingly, T'Challa takes a while to answer.

“No,” he says, eventually.

“Well, it’s a duet,” Sam sighs. “So it wouldn’t be much fun if you weren’t doing your part.”

“I will be forever grateful for this,” T'Challa says, and Sam can’t see his face, but he thinks he can hear his smile.

*

The next morning, Sam wakes up to sunshine, and birds singing, and Captain America being weird in the main room of their shared suite. 

Sam doesn’t know about the being weird right away. Like, he gets up, pulls on a shirt, goes out to the main room, and up to then it feels like things are normal, but at that point the weirdness is really evident. First of all, Steve is showered, and neat, and wearing a napkin on his knee while he eats his ginormous breakfast, which is a stark contrast to his usual slobby sweaty post-run Slimer-swallowing-a-food-truck routine. And he doesn’t look up at Sam when Sam comes out, not even to tease him about not being a morning person, and Steve usually can’t resist that.

“Hey,” Sam tries, and now Steve does look up at him. He fiddles with the edge of his napkin. Sam rolls his eyes. “Okay, what’s wrong?”

“You – got in really late last night,” Steve says, and he looks red in the face but determined, a combination Sam most recently saw on him when he tried to get through a statement about his bisexuality at a press conference. Sam braces for the worst.

“And? You’re not my dad.” Steve’s blush deepens. 

“No. But I worry about you. Were you – was it a, uh, local girl?”

“Local boy,” Sam corrects him, and then regrets it, because he’s never made a statement about _his_ sexuality at a press conference and he’s pretty sure Steve doesn’t know it. “King of Wakanda? You’ve met him, I think. We went on a tour of the city.” He points upwards, mimes a bird flying by hooking his thumbs together and flapping his hands like wings. Steve relaxes visibly.

“Oh. Oh, that’s really good.”

“You jealous?” Sam grins. It’d be kind of flattering if he was. 

Steve raises his eyebrows. “You got something going on with the King of Wakanda I should know about?” 

Sam shrugs, casually, like this isn’t hard to do at all, like he could do it in a press conference if he wanted to, like he’s as brave as Steve is. “Dunno. The man is damn fine, though. Can’t say I’d mind.”

“Oh,” Steve says again, and this time his blush looks pleased. “Well. Yes. I’d, uh. Have to agree.”

“You ever smelled him? Like up close?” Sam asks, dizzy with this new freedom and wanting to see how far he can push it. “Because he was pressed up against me that whole flight last night. In the harness.”

Steve, who’s ridden in the harness many times, who is in fact the man for whom the harness was designed, nods slowly and smiles. “I bet he smells really good,” he offers. 

“Yeah he does. And he told me, when I dropped him off, to meet him again today. This morning. Soon, in fact,” Sam adds belatedly, looking at the time on his phone. 

“Second date, huh,” Steve says, teasing him. Steve’s teasing is like a mom’s teasing, all full of love and not very mean. “Good luck.” Then he frowns. “You’re not just flirting with him to get your wings back, though, are you? Because I don’t know if I’ve made this clear, Sam, but I wouldn’t want you to compromise your virtue for the sake of tactical equipment.”

There’s a smile twinkling behind Steve’s eyes, so Sam knows he can laugh, and does. “No way, man. T’Challa’s a lot like you, makes me feel like I’ve got a lot more virtue than I ever knew about.”

“Well, good,” Steve says, cocking his head. “Sounds like he’s good for you.”

Sam waves this away. “We’re not dating,” he says. “And you’re a pain in the ass.”

“Love you too, Sam,” Steve says, gently. “Shave before you go and meet him, okay?”

Sam throws a napkin at him. But he does shave extra-carefully, just in case.

*

Sam finds T'Challa where he said he’d be, on the fourth floor balcony near the main receiving room, impeccably dressed in a suit and a shirt with an open collar, sipping probably-expensive coffee and reading on his tablet. He looks up when he sees Sam approach. 

“Ah, good morning, Mr Wilson,” he says. Sam shakes his head.

“You really gotta call me Sam, dude. C’mon. Seriously. I took you flying.”

T'Challa’s smile is slow and secretive. “Very well,” he says, without uttering Sam’s name. “Are you ready to go?”

Sam nods, and T'Challa snaps his fingers, and a few seconds later there’s a helicopter – or something a lot like a helicopter, but much quieter – hovering next to the balcony. T'Challa sets down his cup on its saucer and stands. The edge of the balcony drops down, and the door of the quiet helicopter-thing opens, and inside Sam sees one of the giant terrifying women in a helmet and aviators, sitting behind the controls.

“This way, if you please,” T'Challa says, and offers his hand. Sam imagines Steve’s grandfatherly slash motherly slash bisexual teasing if he could see this, and places his hand in T'Challa’s. He tries not to focus too much on its strength, the softness of his skin, or the warm feel of it, warm and moving like the vibranium-powered wings that molded themselves to Sam’s body.

He sits in the back, and T'Challa sits in the front, and then they’re airborne again, like the night before.

“So I guess you’ve seen the view from the air before,” Sam says.

“But not the view from your eyes,” T'Challa replies, calmly. Then, a heartbeat later, he adds, “Sam.”

This shuts Sam up pretty much until they get to their destination, because being flirted with by the king of Wakanda is some intense shit. 

They land eventually in a cleared field outside the city, with a huge barn-like structure adjacent. It doesn’t take Sam long to figure out the purpose of the place; after all, he’s been a member of a superhero team himself, and knows what a training camp looks like.

The terrifying giant women – not all of whom are giant after all – are in their element, training, talking, making use of the exercise equipment. The spears have lasers in them after all, which, Sam should’ve known. When the helicopter-thing lands, one of the women comes running up at a brisk jog, and Sam recognizes her from their lunch table the day before.

“Your highness,” the woman says, and bows deeply. T'Challa, to Sam’s surprise, returns the gesture. 

“Shuri,” he says, warmly, and then turns towards Sam, inviting him in to the conversation. “I would like to introduce Mr Sam Wilson to the Dora Milaje.”

Shuri’s eyebrows shoot up, and there’s something in the incredulity of the expression that Sam recognizes; he’s seen the same look on T’Challa’s face. “Is this – ” he begins, but then T'Challa cuts his question off by answering it.

“My sister, Shuri, princess of the realm and leader of the Dora Milaje. It is a role usually filled by a member of the leading clan, but Shuri is the first to lead the Dora Milaje while also being heir to the throne.” T'Challa sounds proud of this, so Sam takes a shot in the dark and bows deeply towards her.

“Good to meet you,” he says. Shuri returns his bow, though not as deeply as she bowed for her brother. 

“So you’re the one who’s been flying one of our machines,” she says.

*

Sam hears a lot about how the king’s personal bodyguards are trained, about the oaths they take, and about the sacrifices they make, and he gets to watch some of the women face each other in fast, brutal, amazing one-on-one combat. But it’s not until after lunch – a simple meal eaten with the Dora Milaje in their big, open-aired cafeteria – that Sam gets to see what he was brought here for.

He counts; twenty-eight women take to the sky, Shuri included, each in what seem to be hand-tailored versions of the tech he flew last night. Some have long, steady wings, good for bearing more weight, and some are lighter and faster; some take to the air with fancy whirls and loops, and some just soar upwards in a rush of power; some wings are small and easily concealed, while others are big and bulky and look like they could take a lot of punishment in a fight.

They each match the woman who bears them, as well as – Sam suspects – the purpose they’ve trained for. Messengers, ambassadors, fighters, spies, and scouts: T'Challa made wings for all of them. 

They do a complicated and beautiful aerial display, moving together in synchrony across the sky. Some of the moves make Sam think back on his days in training with the wings, when he and Riley had first met and gotten close. Back then, there had been twelve of them, twelve pararescues learning to fly under their own power. They had done things like this, sometimes, and had called it training, but to Sam it’d been pure joy, to fly with so many others, calling out their movements to one another, all of them in perfect control.

Sam’s the last of those twelve left alive.

They watch, for a while, Wakandan women swooping past each other, knowing by long practice and trust where each of the others is going to be, working together to make this poetry against the sky. Sam can’t help the tears that slip from the corners of his eyes at the sight. 

“You are well, I hope,” T'Challa murmurs, as the Dora Milaje begin to land, one by one. “I had thought you would enjoy this display, but now I wonder if it was right to bring you here.”

“It’s good,” Sam manages, wiping his eyes. “It’s great. Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” It’s something Sam never thought he would see again, a home he thought he had lost forever. He wishes he could be in the air with them.

T'Challa nods slowly. “Good.”

When the display is over, the Dora Milaje take off their safety gear and come over to greet them, all of them bowing to their king and then shaking Sam’s hands gladly. 

“We have seen your moves on Youtube,” one of them says, laughing. She’s one of the tallest, and her voice is deep and melodious. “Very good, especially given the tortoise shell you had on your back.”

“Thanks,” Sam says. “You all looked amazing up there, really impressive.”

“Good,” the Dora Milaje nods. “That’s as it should be.”

T'Challa comes over and places a hand on Sam’s shoulder. It feels like an intimacy, and that feeling gets confirmed when Sam sees the look of surprise on the Dora Milaje’s face when she notices the touch.

“I must see to some business, Sam,” T'Challa says. “I will be gone a little while. In the meantime, I leave you in Shuri’s care. She will see to anything you need until I return.”

Sam’s had whole dreams about being left in the care of a group of fearsome warrior women with huge muscles and impressive scars, but now that it’s happening he feels a little unsure. 

“Uh, okay,” he says, doubtfully. T'Challa nods to Shuri, who nods grimly back, and Sam just hopes to God he’s not going to be killed. 

T'Challa gets back on his helicopter-thing, and Shuri gestures for Sam to follow her. Like her brother, she doesn’t turn around to see whether she’s obeyed.

She takes him on a tour of the barracks, where the Dora Milaje sleep while they’re at training – which, she informs him, they do in shifts, one quarter of their force at a time. 

“This is currently – in English I suppose you’d say C group,” she offers. “Their time is nearly up, though, and then D group will arrive for their yearly training.”

“That’s really interesting,” Sam says, and it is, he doesn’t want to underplay it, but – “but I guess I’m not sure why you’re telling me all this.” He smiles, hoping to soften what he’s worried might be offensive to her. She doesn’t look offended, though, just confused.

“Because you have applied to join our number,” she explains, slowly, like she would to a child. “Because you seek to take the oaths of our society.”

“I, uh,” Sam says. “No? And I mean – aren’t you all women? And also, seriously, no.”

She rolls her eyes. “To bear the wings of a Dora Milaje, you must take at least some of the oaths,” she says. “To do otherwise would be – ” she speaks a word in Wakandan, then thinks it over. “Blasphemous. I suppose. To bear Wakandan technology, and the wings made by the king himself no less, you must swear to the codes that protect that technology, and protect Wakanda.”

“Wow,” Sam says. “So, to get this straight, this is some info that your brother knew I needed to have, and he decided to get you to tell me while he ran off so he wouldn’t have to be around for it. That about the size of it?”

“Well put, yes,” Shuri says, grimacing. Now that he knows to look for it, Sam can see how many of her facial expressions are like her brother’s. 

“Can I ask you something about him?”

“You may ask,” Shuri allows. “I will not give up information on childhood imaginary friends, however.”

“Wow, okay, we should definitely talk about that later,” Sam laughs. “But, uh, no. I was wondering – and if this isn’t cool for me to be asking, please tell me – I was wondering what the deal is on, uh. Royal dating. Like, if T'Challa can take a . . . ” Sam trails off, because the only words he can think to use to finish that sentence are _lover_ and the even more wince-inducing _consort_ , and he isn’t sure that he wants to be either of those. Being around all these Wakandans has him talking like some kind of medieval dude.

“Boyfriend?” Shuri asks. “Fuckbuddy?” At Sam’s horrified expression, she laughs. “We do have fuckbuddies in Wakanda,” she adds, which kind of makes it worse. Then, sobering, she adds, “But those who break my brother’s heart face the wrath of his Dora Milaje.”

“You – you avenge the king’s heartbreak? I thought you just guarded his body,” Sam stammers, buying time so he can collect his wits. 

“Traditionally, yes. But when the head of the Dora Milaje is the king’s very protective twin sister, you can imagine that the duties tend to expand somewhat.”

“Right,” Sam agrees.

“Are you asking for yourself?” Her tone has no judgment in it one way or another.

Helplessly, Sam nods. “But I don’t know if it’s – I mean, it might just be me. I don’t know.”

Shuri shrugs, as if to say that she possesses no opinion on the matter, but Sam suddenly remembers how she had looked at him when they showed up, her eyes raking over him. He gets the feeling that T'Challa hasn’t brought a lot of foreign men to meet the Dora Milaje on their secret training grounds.

“Well, you may ask him for whatever intimacies you desire. It is no crime to ask, only to take what is not given. So long as it is done in private, it is not an impertinence against the Panther Clan.”

“Check,” Sam says, his head reeling. “Didn’t want to be . . . impertinent.”

“Is that why you seek to join our ranks? You are – interested in him?” 

Sam shakes his head. “It’s the other way around. I – this started because I wanted the wings.” Thinking back on it, Sam’s amazed at how much has grown between him and T'Challa in such a short period of time, how willing he is to trust after a couple of days. Then again, he shouldn’t be amazed; he knows himself well enough to know that it was the same with Riley, and with Steve.

“Why do you want them?” It’s the same question her brother asked, and she has the same burning, intelligent curiosity in her eyes as she asks it. 

“They make me feel like myself,” Sam replies, and it’s closer to the truth than he got the day before, when T'Challa asked. “Bring me closer to who I am. Bring me home.”

Shuri seems surprised at this, and shakes her head. “That is an interesting answer,” she says, eventually.

“I went without them for a long time,” he confesses. “It was hard.”

“I imagine that it would be difficult,” Shuri replies, mildly, but her eyes look up to the sky as if she knows more of the feeling than she can currently admit to. “If we gave them to you, you would be bound by our codes. To use them only in ways that harm no Wakandan, no Wakandan interests. You’d have to take an oath swearing that you would come home to Wakanda, to serve in its defense, if it were ever beset by war.”

“Okay.” That’s one to think about. But Sam isn’t in the American armed forces anymore; hell, he’d be arrested the second he set foot on American soil. He could swear to something like that if he wanted to.

“And you’d also have to swear to be kind to my brother, who is a hothead and a fool who charges into every situation as if time is running out. He takes life too fast, too eagerly, and he is obstinate once he has made up his mind on a course of action.”

“That oath would be just for you, huh,” Sam asks, and it brings a little smile to Shuri’s lips. 

“It would,” she allows.

“Why did you want them?” Sam asks, unable to shake his curiosity. “The wings, I mean. Or – the whole Dora Milaje thing. Why’d you take it on?”

She’s silent for a long time, then cocks her head at Sam and speaks. “I was the second twin, and a girl. I would never rule before my brother, only after his death.”

“But now you’re in charge of preventing his death.”

“I asked myself, when I was very young, which I would rather have: the throne that I craved, or the loss of my brother. And I decided to see to it personally that I would never sit on the throne.”

“Wow,” Sam says, shaking his head. He thinks about her muscles, the callouses on her hands, the strategy and knowledge in her mind. All put on, painstakingly, in order to sacrifice her own ambition. “You coulda just run off to join the circus or something.”

“There is little use running from destiny,” she grins. “Which you will know, if you have ever attempted it.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, thinking about all the parts of his life that brought him here, seriously considering swearing his fealty to the king of a country he barely knows. “You’re not wrong.”

*

T'Challa comes back a while later, after Shuri’s thoroughly kicked his ass at hand-to-hand combat and a few of the other women have had a fun time doing the same. One of the trainers at the facility, Sam’s pretty sure, was in her sixties at least, and she still wiped the floor with him.

“Thank God you’re here to rescue me,” Sam pants, staggering for effect as T'Challa approaches. To his surprise, T'Challa doesn’t hesitate in reaching out for him, taking him by the shoulder and the waist to steady him. 

His hand slips a little further around Sam’s waist than it really has to, and Sam’s body thrills to the touch. He looks up into T'Challa’s eyes.

“I will rescue you,” T'Challa smirks. “Fair maiden.”

“Sorry, neither,” Sam grins, because he’s always secretly wanted to be Uhura. T'Challa’s lips quirk at the reply and his strong arms bear Sam up and help him balance again. His hands, however, linger lightly against Sam’s waist.

“I like your country,” Sam says. “I like your Dora Milaje. And I might – it might be cool to stay for a while, learn some new tricks with the wings, let these women beat me up on the regular.”

“Yes? And do you think they would accept you?” T'Challa’s tone is distant, but he dares a couple of swift glances at Sam that make Sam wonder how invested he might be in the question.

“Maybe.” He smiles, thinking back on Shuri’s advice. “There’s no harm in asking, right? But the oaths . . . I dunno, man. I mean, right now I can’t go back home, but I might want to one day.”

“You can swear to me instead,” T'Challa offers, easily. “An oath that lasts only until my death.”

Sam breaks the contact between their bodies and looks at him, startled.

“I’ll think about it,” he says.

*

That night, T'Challa invites him to dinner, and Sam accepts. It’s held in a different room than the big, boisterous public lunches, and Sam sees why immediately; there’s only a single table, set for two, and there are curtains and screens in place to make the small room more intimate still.

“Hi,” Sam says, as T'Challa gestures for him to sit. “This is nice.”

“I wanted to talk with you in private,” T'Challa says, which isn’t really an explanation for why there’s Wakandan berry wine on the table and only the soft glow from a little vibranium lamp to light the room. “I wanted to ask you more questions.”

“Oh, I get it,” Sam says, sitting down. T'Challa sits after him, like a man on a date in an old movie. “You brought me here to interrogate me.” Without losing eye contact, he reaches across the table, sliding his fingers across T'Challa’s open palm. T'Challa’s lips quirk.

“Just so.”

Unlike every other meal Sam’s had in the palace with the king, there are no servants present; instead, T'Challa pours the wine himself, and the food is all laid out on a little buffet table to Sam’s left; unsurprisingly, T’Challa is the one who gets up to serve it.

“So,” Sam says, watching as T'Challa’s hands go to work. “I hope you’ll tell me if I’m breaking some rules about eating dinner with the king.”

T'Challa shrugs. “There are no rules when there is no one around to observe them.”

“You believe that?” Sam can see it when it comes to etiquette, but he’s not sure T'Challa is really that type of guy. Or else he’d have let Sam serve himself.

“The question is what you believe.”

In that quiet room, under the influence of half a glass of light summer wine and T'Challa’s eyes on him, Sam finds himself spilling stories he’s rarely told: about his time in pararescue, about the two hard years he spent chasing after Bucky with Steve, about all the Avengers missions, even the ones he disagreed with. About his time at the VA, too: the people he hadn’t been able to help, the decisions he regrets. T'Challa asks, and Sam answers, and it’s a little like doing a job interview and a little like taking wedding vows and nothing at all like either of those.

Whatever else it is, it’s also a relief, to Sam’s surprise.

He watches T'Challa’s face as he listens, and has the strange feeling of being judged by a standard he doesn’t know and couldn’t learn, checks and minuses added to his score sheet for reasons he can’t discern. But that’s what makes it so easy to tell his secrets, and the more he talks, the better he feels. He realizes that it’s not because he’s never shared these stories before, with his family, with his therapist, with Steve; it’s because, at some level, he wants T'Challa to know.

When there’s a lull, when T'Challa has asked all his questions, when Sam feels emptied out, he asks, “Why now?”

“Pardon me?”

“Why take an interest now? I’ve been here plenty of times before. Why wait until months after you saw my wings to take them away from me? Or to . . . to grill me about what I’ve done with them?”

“I explained Wakanda’s interest in the case. I only recently got access to information on Tony Stark’s designs that proved he based his designs on mine.”

“Okay,” Sam says, slowly. “But you could’ve asked me.”

“What would that have proven? I did not know to what extent I could trust you.”

Sam frowns in frustration. “And now?”

“Now,” T'Challa says, looking down into his wine glass for answers, “now I think I do know.”

“And what makes you so morally perfect, so wise, that you get to judge my past?” Sam asks the question softly, but he knows there’s resentment in it, buried deep.

“Nothing, really,” T'Challa says. “The power of a king is only that which is given by the people, agreed on by his subjects. I have no moral authority outside of that. I have regrets too.”

“You regret letting Zemo go? Or you regret trying to kill him in the first place?”

“Yes,” T'Challa smiles, and Sam rolls his eyes. “I wish you had known my father, Sam. He was – he knew, better than me, what was right. What was good.”

“That must’ve been so annoying,” Sam guesses, which surprises a laugh out of T'Challa.

“It was, because any time I disagreed with him, I knew that I would come back to him the next day having discovered the wisdom of what he said.” T'Challa licks his lips, running a finger along the edge of his glass. “I do not have that clear vision, that confidence. I have made – mistakes.”

“Maybe he just had the confidence of his people, invested in him, for a long time,” Sam guesses, and T'Challa looks up sharply. 

“I hope you are right,” T'Challa says. Sam reaches across the table, taking his hand again.

“You’re going to be a good king,” he says, because he believes it, now. T'Challa watches his face, then smiles.

“Well, if I am not, then Shuri will kill me and take my place.”

Sam laughs. “Damn right she will.” They both, of course, know otherwise. There’s no escape for T'Challa from this thing he was destined for. It’s something Sam will have to make a part of his life, if he wants to make T'Challa part of his life.

When the meal is finally over, it’s nearly midnight. Sam half expects T'Challa to kiss him, or maybe give him ethics homework – it was a confusing sort of conversation – but before they part T'Challa just squeezes one of Sam’s shoulders, awkwardly, while Sam flails a little to return the gesture somehow.

“Goodnight,” T'Challa says. “Thank you.”

“Thank you too,” Sam says, then frowns at himself. “I mean, for the meal. And the conversation.”

T'Challa looks like he’s laughing but trying not to show it. Meanwhile, Sam’s flailing hand has found its way down T'Challa’s wrist to his hand, and Sam clasps it again, unwilling to be put off by some awkward touching.

To his surprise, T'Challa takes hold of their clasped hands, raising them towards his mouth and kissing Sam’s knuckles. 

“I have business to see to tomorrow,” T'Challa says, lifting his head again to meet Sam’s eyes. “But I will hope to see you when it is concluded.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, his heart picking up speed. “Um. Okay.”

*

“You asked him?” Shuri’s voice follows Sam as he walks through the palace back to his suite, and he nearly screams.

“Good God, give a guy some warning,” he pants, turning towards her. She’s silent as hell when she moves, even in the echoing corridor.

“You asked him, as we discussed?” Shuri presses, and Sam shakes his head. 

“He was giving me a quiz on my moral history instead,” he says, deadpan, still feeling the touch of T'Challa’s lips on his hand and wishing he had asked for more.

Shuri sucks in air through her teeth.

“What? Is that, like, a Wakandan marriage proposal or something?” 

“Noooooo,” she says, slowly, which makes Sam kind of think that it is. Of course it is. Fucking Wakanda, so strange and stiff and formal.

“Well, I don’t – I mean, I barely know the guy.” But Sam is thinking about all the things that he does know: the way T'Challa looks when he’s surprised into a laugh, when he’s sizing Sam up, when he’s revealing a secret. The way he relies on his sister. The way he misses his father. Sam wants to know more.

“He seems to be going to extraordinary lengths to make sure that you know him,” Shuri says, confirming Sam’s train of thought. Then she looks up at Sam with interest sparkling in her eyes. “And, as I told you, he takes life very fast.”

“Have there – has he had others? Like me? Before?” Sam doesn’t know how to feel about that. In a way, it would be good to just be a fling to T'Challa, a passion to be moved on from. In another way, it’d be devastating.

“Mmm,” Shuri says, noncommittally. “That depends on what you are. We will have to see. It would be very funny if all the old councillors had to accept a foreigner as the king’s consort.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “Well, at least I have comedic value,” he manages, eventually, which makes Shuri smile. 

“You do,” she agrees, and it’s as close to her approval as Sam thinks he’s likely to come, at least for now.

She walks him all the way back to his door, as if there could be enemies in the shadows waiting to spring.

“Thank you for the escort,” he says, bowing to her with a smile. “And for the advice.”

She favors him with a quick nod of her head. “Remember that I have bested you in personal combat and that I will not hesitate to challenge you to a duel if my brother’s honor should ever be at stake,” she returns pleasantly.

Sam blinks, trying to figure out how to answer her, and as he does she turns away, her business with him concluded, her silent footfalls taking her back to wherever a ninja princess goes at night. 

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Sam says, to the empty corridor.

*

“Still staying out late with the king, huh?” Steve asks, the next morning, and Sam wonders if he’s been practicing that one since he woke up at o-dark-whatever.

“And the king’s sister, this time,” Sam says, and even though Steve’s blush is riotous, he manages a low wolf whistle.

“No one can resist you, it seems, Sam,” he says, warmly.

“It’s the other way around,” Sam moans, and buries his head in his hands.

Later, Steve promises him that the circumstances of his current crush aren’t technically treason, and it seems like the type of thing that Captain America would know, so that’s pretty cool.

*

Despite his best efforts to sweet-talk the Dora Milaje on duty – who are not at all impressed that he’s been to their secret training camp – Sam doesn’t see T'Challa anywhere that day, until the heat is passing and the cool of twilight beginning to relieve it. Steve’s out meeting with the doctors who are working on Bucky’s case, and Sam, restless and lonely, throws open all the windows and the double doors to their balcony to let in the evening air. He could go and catch up to Steve and the docs, or see if Shuri’s around, or hang out with some of the Wakandan young people, who are hungry for the world beyond their borders and tend to accost any foreigner they see to engage them in conversations about politics. Instead, though, he’s staring at his emails and thinking about where to start in answering them.

Ever since Steve busted him out of prison he’s been on the run, a wanted man, and while Sam wouldn’t trade this life for anything it still makes it hard to talk to his family and his friends when he knows he can’t go back to see them anytime soon, and when most of his life has to be kept secret from them. At least it’s okay to tell them about Wakanda, since they’re well protected when they come here. He sighs, beginning an email to his mom. 

_Glad to hear the cataract surgery went well,_ he writes. _Before you ask, yes, I’m in Wakanda again. I wish you were here so you could see it for yourself, Momma. It’s nothing at all like what we thought it’d be, but it’s amazing. And weird. And foreign. I’m starting to really like it here, some parts of it anyway. It was hard for me at first, but I’m coming around. Some of the food is really good once you get used to it._

He thinks about telling her about this guy he likes, about how he might be falling pretty hard for him. About how he might get new wings and take new oaths. He bites his lip.

_Plus, when I’m here, I’m safe, which I know you like._

But that might not be all that true, because it’s at that moment that the Black Panther appears on Sam’s balcony railing, balancing easily on its thin surface because, Sam assumes, T'Challa is a big show-off.

“What is it?” Sam asks, standing. The Panther stares him down for a long moment, then holds something out, gripped in his claws. It’s the wing pack Sam used the other day, the one from T'Challa’s workshop.

“Get ready.”

Sam puts them on without thinking about it, adjusting and double-checking all the straps automatically.

“Follow.”

“I’m really not a cat person, don’t know if I mentioned that,” Sam huffs, stepping up onto the balcony and looking down. The height should be enough for him to catch the wind.

“Odd, since I have always been quite partial to birds,” the Panther replies, archly, clicking his razor-sharp claws for emphasis. 

Sam’s still laughing when he throws himself out the window, his eyes trained on the near-invisible shape running through the darkness below.

*

The eastern border isn’t far from the city. When they get near, Sam sees what he assumes must be their target: six men sitting around a campfire, laughing and passing around a bottle of whiskey. Sam grimaces; the HUD for these wings has the same scanning technology as his old ones, and he can see weapons, serious weapons, stashed in their gear. He dives down to meet the Panther, who holds position outside the circle of firelight. 

“Vibranium hunters,” T'Challa explains. “They come a few times a year. Always different men, hunting the same treasure. Never content unless they can see us plundered.”

Sam swallows hard. “What will you do?” he asks, because he knows that T'Challa has already made up his mind.

“They have enough ordnance to destroy half of Central Wakanda,” T'Challa says. “I will do what is necessary.”

He gives them a warning, and it’s clear about their transgression and clear about the consequences. He tells them to leave, and to tell others that Wakanda is protected.

From what Sam can tell, though, these guys were happy to believe all the stories about the vibranium mine, and none of the ones about the Panther God who lives in the woods to protect it. They attack, and while Sam swoops in unthinkingly to defend the king, the Black Panther kills five men in short order. Sam gets there just in time to stop the sixth man from unloading his AK-47 into T'Challa’s back, slowing his descent so he can kick the guy in the chest with both feet, sending him sprawling backwards. The gun goes flying, and T'Challa turns and watches Sam from behind his mask. 

Sam checks the guy’s vitals; he’s dead, his ribs caved in with the force of the blow. Sam stands, surveying the carnage around him. He did what he had to do, to protect T'Challa, and he knows he’d do it again. But the question is why he was brought here in the first place, to witness this, to play a part in it.

“You have been honest with me,” T'Challa says, pushing back his cowl, holding Sam’s gaze, and answering his unspoken question. “I had an opportunity to do the same for you. Let you see what I am, what I am for.”

“You gonna ask me to do this for you on the regular?” Sam feels the words rip from his throat. He hasn’t seen this much blood in a while. But he’s not squeamish, and he knows that this is what’s been necessary for centuries to defend Wakanda.

“I might. I would ask. But there can only be reciprocity if I allow you the right to refuse.”

“Doesn’t sound like how a king acts to me.”

“Then you haven’t been paying attention,” T'Challa says, softly.

Sam nods, then looks at the sky. It’s a long way back to the city, and he bets T'Challa is tired from the run and the fight. He doesn’t have his harness, but he holds out his hands, asking, and T'Challa sheaths his claws and puts his hands into Sam’s, trusts his weight to Sam’s grip, and lets Sam bear him home.

When they land back on the same balcony, the king – the Black Panther – T'Challa, his friend, holds his face with a firm, gentle hand and kisses him once. It’s demanding and hot and Sam finds himself leaning into it just as it ends, as T'Challa pulls away. A kiss like a question.

“I have gone too far?” T'Challa asks, his breath coming fast, but he doesn’t move away. Sam shakes his head, reaches out, takes T'Challa by the shoulder. His Black Panther uniform feels strange, soft to the touch but warm, too, like Sam’s new wings. 

“No,” Sam says, hoarsely, and reels him in again, and this time the kiss they share is long, and reciprocated, and intense: Sam bites at T'Challa’s lips and T'Challa’s tongue presses into Sam’s mouth and it’s good, it feels good to Sam, like finding something he’s been looking for. T'Challa’s hands roam over Sam’s sides, and when they break apart a second time Sam knows he can’t do it again, not if he wants to stop at all tonight.

And he’s still got thinking to do. There’s still blood on T'Challa’s suit.

“I will see you tomorrow,” T'Challa breathes. He’s panting, sweat gleaming on his neck in the moonlight, though whether as a result of their kiss or the heat of the night, Sam doesn’t know. 

“I’ll find you,” Sam says, because he knows damn well he’s going to need some time alone first.

*

It’s late in the day when Sam makes his decision, and requests an audience with the king.

T'Challa has the Dora Milaje bring him up to one of the formal receiving rooms; before they open the doors for him, one of them offers him a small smile. 

“Good luck,” she murmurs, and then Sam is walking up to where the king sits at his desk, writing . . . whatever it is that kings write. Papers. Documents. Official decrees.

“I have something I want to ask you,” Sam says, then adds on a belated, “your highness.”

T'Challa looks up, fire lighting in his eyes, and just once Sam wishes he could fall in love with someone normal, someone who doesn’t burn like a torch in the darkness and run like a dumbass towards danger whenever it strikes.

“Then ask.” He puts down his pen, and Sam notices that the paper he was writing on doesn’t look like a form, or a decree, or anything like that.

“What – what are you writing?”

T'Challa’s eyebrows go up. “That is your question?”

Sam shrugs. 

Laughing, T'Challa says, “Poetry.”

“Really.”

“I am not very good at it, I think. But I will keep practicing.”

“Can I read it?” 

Standing, T'Challa walks around his desk to stand on the other side of it, putting them face to face. And, maybe not coincidentally, blocking the poetry from Sam’s eyes. Sam is definitely gonna have to try to read that.

“It’s in Wakandan,” T'Challa says, squaring his body off against Sam’s. 

They’re close to the same height, though Sam’s a little wider in the shoulders. Sam doesn’t have to wonder, though, which of them would win in personal combat. 

T'Challa’s voice is soft. “Sam, please ask me what you came here to ask.”

Sam takes a deep breath and tries to remember the words he and Steve worked out that morning, based on what Sam has learned of the Dora Milaje oaths and what will keep him from messing with his American citizenship.

“King T'Challa,” Sam says, “will you accept my personal oath to you, in exchange for your favor and the works of your hands?” 

T'Challa is grinning widely by the end of it. “You Americans are terrible at oaths. You start by kneeling.”

Sam, slowly, lowers himself to his knees. T'Challa maintains eye contact with him the entire time, and Sam can’t help thinking of all the other things he could do from this position. Well. One thing in particular, really. T'Challa is the vessel of his peoples’ hope and the symbol of a nation and he’s a quiet loner nerd just trying to keep his world together with both hands, and Sam wants very much to touch him.

Instead, he waits.

“You will never use that which I give you against any Wakandan, or against the interests of Wakanda as you know them,” T'Challa says, gently, then pauses. “Repeat.”

Sam opens his mouth. “I will never use that which you give me against any Wakandan, or against the interests of Wakanda as I know them,” he breathes.

“You will return home, when I call you, provided that no previous oath has claim to your loyalty.”

At this, he relaxes a little; the terms are open, and allow room for Sam to say no. He repeats the words back. It feels odd, to call Wakanda home, not least because it’s the first one Sam’s had in a while.

“And you will never use my favor, or the works of my hands, to enrich yourself; only to enrich the Wakandan people and the world at large.”

Sam repeats the words.

“And you will be beholden to me, as my personal ally and friend, as I will be beholden to you.”

Sam blinks, looking up to meet T'Challa’s eyes.

“Yes,” he says, forgetting himself, then repeats the words back as T'Challa gave them.

“Then rise, Sam Wilson, friend to Wakanda, the first such friend in many years. We welcome you home.”

Sam stands, and T'Challa kisses him softly on the mouth, lush and simple, and Sam can’t tell if it’s for him alone, or part of the ceremony, or both. He leans into it, living in that kiss, in his oath, for as long as he can.

“And to think it took me less than four days to convince you,” T'Challa smiles, when they pull apart, and Sam’s eyes go wide. 

“No, no no no,” Sam says, “I was the one convincing you.” 

T'Challa shrugs. “If that is how you would like to tell the story. I will have my official biographers tell it differently, however.”

“Oh, and I suppose the Wakandan official record is the only one that counts,” Sam says. 

“Naturally.” T'Challa’s smile is wide and beautiful, and Sam wants to get lost in his eyes.

T'Challa coughs, breaking the moment. 

“Have you had the opportunity to see the orchards, Sam?” T'Challa asks, going back to the other side of his desk and looking down at his papers. His poetry. Sam wonders what it’s about. Lots of kings have been poets, he thinks, though it didn’t keep any of them from violence, or violence from them. 

“No,” Sam manages, after a moment. “I haven’t.”

“Now might be a good time. Many of them are bearing fruit, and your new oath means that you are welcome to eat from the trees.”

“Oh, cool,” Sam says. “I like . . . fruit.” Fruit was definitely where he thought this thing with T'Challa was going. Fruit was exactly the perk he was hoping for.

T'Challa nods. “Then enjoy. I will hope to see you soon.”

Sam starts to leave, then stops and gives a hasty bow, then finishes the leaving process. He looks for Steve, because there are times when a guy just really needs to talk to his best friend and this post-oath-swearing-fealty-kiss-relationship-limbo moment is definitely one of those times. But he can’t find Steve anywhere, so he actually does end up going to the orchard and picking fruit from the trees. He takes some back for Steve, who’s bound to show up hungry at some point, and tries not to touch his fingers to his lips in an imitation of the kiss the king gave him to mark his fealty.

“What the fuck have you gotten yourself into, Wilson,” he mutters.

*

“Ugh, it’s weird, I don’t know,” he moans, a few hours later, while Steve consolingly pats his back. “I’m sort of married to his technology but I thought I also made it clear that I want to make out with him. Him, him, not just the wings he made for me.”

“Though the wings are pretty worthy of makeouts too,” Steve puts in gently. “Or so you assured me two days ago. You called them sexy and said you wanted them all over your body.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. The wings are _damn_ sexy. “Yeah, I mean, if it was just a lot of flirting and a couple kisses and he doesn’t really want to – I mean – that’s okay, we’re still in a good place, cementing ties with Wakanda and all that, earning the trust and the ear of the king, that’s supposed to be a good thing.” It was supposed to be Sam’s main objective, a few days ago when he started this charm offensive. Now it feels like a consolation prize.

Steve pats him some more. “He’s quite handsome, though,” he says, and Sam groans again.

“He isssssss,” Sam agrees. “And he smells really good, and he’s passionate and he writes poetry and he has his own orchards and is basically the complete package.”

“There are orchards?” Steve asks. Sam sighs.

“I brought you some fruit. It’s on the table.”

“Hey, thanks,” Steve says, and only stands up long enough to grab a few pieces before he comes back and resumes his pats. At least Sam has this, he thinks. And it’s – it’s nice to have come out to Steve, a little. It’s nice to be queer friends with Steve, not just friends like they used to be. He’s glad all of this happened, he is. He wouldn’t change it.

“Thanks for the sympathy,” Sam says, levering himself up off the bed. Steve watches him carefully with those doe-like concerned eyes, and Sam figures that, really, he’s pretty lucky to be where he is: he might be in exile, but he’s not homeless, not anymore, and he’s not without people who love him.

“Anytime,” Steve says, gently. Sam doesn’t think about it, just leans in, angling to put his mouth on Steve’s, and because he closes his eyes in anticipation he doesn’t notice at first that it’s taking a lot longer to get there than it should.

He opens his eyes again, and sees that Steve is holding him back.

“Yeah, no, that’s a terrible idea right now,” Steve says gently. “Though you’re welcome to ask again when you’re not heartsick.”

“Sorry, right,” Sam says, shaking his head. “I was – sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Steve grins. “I know you pretty well.”

“Aw,” Sam says, and wraps Steve up in a hug instead, which Steve allows. Hugging Steve, Sam found out early on, is pretty amazing, all warm and easy, with Steve’s huge body wrapping all around you like a blanket. 

There’s a knock, just then, at the balcony door, which sends Sam almost out of his skin, he jumps so high. He’s still recovering when Steve hops up to answer it.

“Good evening, your highness,” he says graciously, and bows his head as he opens the door.

T'Challa walks through, in his usual suit and tie rather than the Black Panther suit.

“Did you scale the wall?” Sam demands. “Did you scale the wall and creep up on us all silent and weird?”

T'Challa shrugs. “Yes. Did I interrupt something?”

“ _No_ ,” Sam says emphatically. “No, no no. Steve was hugging me as a friend.” Though, he did kind of imply that he might be open to more one day, and that’s a thought to keep in mind, because wow. Hot superheroes everywhere.

T'Challa nods. Steve nods. Sam nods.

“Well,” Steve says, into the silence. “I just remembered.” And then he leaves the room without another word, without making eye contact with either of them, and without his shoes. 

When the door shuts behind him, T'Challa turns back to face Sam, and his eyes are hot again, like they were the night before. 

“I have something I want to ask you,” he says.

“Oh,” Sam says. “Sure.”

T'Challa smiles, and Sam can see the Panther in it, sharp and predatory, but the king too, open and giving, and beneath that a lonely, determined little genius boy who knew his own destiny.

Maybe he didn’t know all of it, though.

“I wanted to ask if you still had . . . interest in me. Now that our business of oath-taking is done. It is not something I expected, but.” He stops suddenly, and grimaces, looking displeased with his own imprecise speech. “But I would be glad if your interest went beyond wings and shields.”

“Oh,” Sam says, realization dawning on him. “You were – you were waiting.”

“It seemed appropriate.”

“So that this could be . . . ” Sam searches for the right fancy Wakandan phrase. “Freely given. Between us.”

“Yes.” T'Challa cups Sam’s head in his hands, his fingertips stroking shiveringly over the base of Sam’s neck. “So much as anything is ever freely given.”

“Well,” Sam drawls. “Well. Then yes.”

“What?” T'Challa seems distracted, maybe by the sensation of his own fingers against Sam’s skin. That’s okay. Sam finds that distracting too.

“My answer to your question. Is yes,” Sam breathes, and doesn’t wait anymore, just takes T'Challa’s mouth with his own in a rough, desperate kiss. T'Challa grips him hard in response, pulling their bodies together the way they were when they flew, pressed tight against one another, sharing heat, breathing in time.

When they come up again for air, Sam’s chest is heaving and his dick is getting hard and he’s hoping to God that the king of Wakanda likes it on top, because Sam seriously needs to get fucked right now. He rests his head on T'Challa’s shoulder, and T'Challa bears its weight easily.

T'Challa’s lips press against the shell of Sam’s ear, and he speaks in a low, sultry whisper that Sam almost doesn’t catch.

“I can show you the world,” he says, and Sam draws back in shock.

“You shit,” he exclaims. T'Challa laughs, and kisses him again.

“You said you didn’t know it,” Sam accuses, between kisses.

“I said I did not want you to sing it,” T'Challa corrects him superciliously. “Now tell me: when did you last let your heart decide?”

“You’re doing the wrong _part_ ,” Sam groans, but kisses him back, and presses his king up against a wall, and laughs with delight as he begins to learn T'Challa’s body with his hands.

“What part do you want me to play?” T'Challa asks, his lips against Sam’s jaw. 

Sam furrows his brow and takes T'Challa’s face in his hands, drawing his head upwards so that they’re eye to eye. He wonders how often in his life T'Challa’s had a break from playing a role. Sam kisses him as gently as he knows how, soft soft lips and breathy little moans.

“I’ll take you any way you like,” Sam says against his mouth, and works T'Challa’s shirt up out of his pants, slides his hand in to run along the muscles of his belly. “What do you like, T'Challa?”

T'Challa doesn’t answer for a few seconds, long enough to make Sam start to worry. 

“Or, if you haven’t – ” Sam begins, pulling back. T'Challa gives him a pitying look.

“If you were looking for a virgin, you were looking in the wrong monarchy,” T'Challa chides him. Sam smiles, but notices that T'Challa is still hesitating, running a finger along the shoulder seam of Sam’s t-shirt.

“But?” 

“But . . . ” T’Challa sighs. “But a king is beholden to his people, not the other way around.”

“Wow, what does that mean?” Sam bursts out, disbelieving. “Does that – is that a metaphor? Or like . . . a guide to sexual positions?”

T'Challa falls against Sam’s shoulder, laughing a little helplessly. Sam holds him, wraps his arms around the most powerful man on Earth, and kisses his cheek.

“It means,” T'Challa says, when he draws back and meets Sam’s eyes, “that I am accustomed to . . . serving the will of the people.”

And he bends his head again, and kisses Sam’s throat.

“Uh _huh_ ,” Sam says. He can imagine it, too, the tender young prince afraid of making demands, concerned about misusing his power, raised to take burdens on himself. He puts that together with the arrogance and the iron will that T'Challa has as an adult, and it makes for a pretty interesting picture.

Sam finds himself really very interested in it.

He steps back, putting some distance between them. T'Challa looks wrecked, even though his shirt’s only a little untucked and his lips are only a little swollen. It’s in the eyes, Sam thinks, and the gleam of his open mouth, the way he wears desire.

“C’mere,” Sam says, crooking his finger. T'Challa follows. 

Sam gets him sitting on the bed, then kneels in front of him, just like he did when he took his oath. T'Challa’s eyes narrow, but Sam shakes his head.

“You want me,” Sam says. His voice sounds hoarse in his own ears.

“Yes,” T'Challa replies, reaching out and stroking his face. Then his strong hand cups Sam’s neck, and Sam shivers.

“What do you want me to do?” He searches T'Challa’s eyes. “Or, what do you want to do to me?”

T'Challa doesn’t answer in words; he just tugs at the hem of Sam’s t-shirt, pulling it up and off. Bare-chested, Sam holds T'Challa’s gaze as he unbuttons his jeans, too, and pushes them down his thighs, along with his briefs. He knows he looks good. T'Challa looks at him for a long moment, taking in his naked form, and then he cups Sam’s jaw.

“I find myself able to think of many answers to that question,” he says, softly. 

Sam’s blood pulses hard at the thought. “Don’t hold back,” he says. “I want it all.”

T’Challa takes Sam’s bare shoulders and pulls him to his feet; Sam kicks free of his pants as he stands, then follows T'Challa’s grip down. T'Challa lies back on the bed, still fully clothed, and pulls Sam on top of him, naked and squirming. 

“I wonder if you know quite what you have let yourself in for,” T'Challa says seriously, and Sam laughs. 

“Where would the fun be in it if I did,” he pants, and kisses T'Challa’s neck, slowly, mouthing his way down to the dip of his collarbone. He’s torn between wanting to get T'Challa’s clothes off and wanting to revel a little longer in the decadent, perverse feeling of being completely naked while T'Challa’s still wearing a fucking tie. But then he thinks, again, of the buttoned-up king and his messy secret workshop, and he comes to a decision.

“Ask me what I want,” Sam says, sitting up and bracing his hands on T'Challa’s chest. While he’s in the position, he grinds down a little against T'Challa’s dick, through his pants, and grins at the tiny gasp he wrings out of him.

“What do you want, Sam?” T'Challa asks, his voice dark.

Sam whispers the words. “I want to see you sweat. Mess you up. Make you lose it.” It’s a guess, but when T'Challa surges up against him, taking Sam in his arms and kissing him fiercely, he figures it’s probably on the money.

He starts by shoving T'Challa back down onto the bed, then squirming down a ways and getting his pants open. The material is soft and thick, obviously expensive, and the silk boxers beneath don’t come as much of a surprise either. Sam pulls T'Challa’s dick out and strokes it, letting it leak onto the fine fabrics. T'Challa rises up on his elbows, and in the dark his eyes shine while he watches Sam go down on him. Sam almost groans as he does it; it’s been a long time for him, and he didn’t know how much he missed this, the taste and the heat and the stretch of his lips. 

He lets himself get lost in it, until T'Challa starts shifting beneath him, his hips restless, his hands starting to clench at the sheets. 

“You love this,” T'Challa murmurs, and his hand comes up, hesitant, gentle, to stroke Sam’s head. “You love the idea of having me at your mercy.” 

Sam pulls off and grins up at T'Challa, letting his hand take over for his mouth. “Here I thought I was at your mercy,” he says, and T'Challa laughs softly. 

“I really like the mouth on you,” he says, which makes Sam’s heart beat fast with desire. 

“Good thing for you,” he says. “Take off your tie, baby. Unbutton your shirt for me.”

T'Challa does, biting his lip as Sam keeps up the hard, slow strokes on his dick. His shirt falls open to reveal a little more skin, his small, dark nipples, the dense curling hair on his chest. Sam puts his mouth to work and sucks on one of T'Challa’s nipples, then follows the line of his pecs down to his abs, pushing aside the shirt a little bit more, revealing more of T'Challa piece by piece.

Meanwhile, T'Challa’s hands are all over him, sliding up his sides and down his thighs, squeezing his shoulders and cupping his ass, transferring his rising urgency like electricity against Sam’s skin. They find each other’s mouths again, and this time their kissing is desperate, deep, drawing a moan from both of them. 

“That’s it,” Sam mutters, against T'Challa’s mouth, “that’s what I want to hear, just like that.”

“Fuck,” T'Challa says, enunciating precisely, resting his forehead against Sam’s. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Sam leans down to kiss T'Challa’s ear. “Wanna see you take what you want,” he whispers. He squeezes T'Challa’s dick and bites down on his earlobe. “Take it. If I don’t like it I’ll say no. I’m yours, baby, come on. Take anything.”

“Let me fuck you,” T'Challa says, squeezing Sam’s ass like he’s trying to make sure Sam gets the idea. “I want to fuck you.”

“Yeah,” Sam pants, “perfect, yes, let’s do it.”

T'Challa sits up and tosses his shirt off the side of the bed while Sam tugs his pants and boxers down his legs. 

“Look at that,” Sam says, once T'Challa’s naked, crawling back on top and kissing him again, rubbing their bodies together sweat-slick and hot. “Like a fucking dream. I want it all, want you on me, want you in me – ”

“Good,” T'Challa breathes, between kisses. “Because I’ve been wanting to fuck you for a long time now.”

Sam groans and bites T'Challa’s shoulder. “Yeah? Cuz I pissed you off?”

“Because you look so good wearing my wings,” T'Challa says. “Because you’re so gorgeous spread out against the sky.”

Shivering, Sam takes his mouth again, letting his hands roam along the muscles in T'Challa’s arms. “You’re getting better at that poetry thing,” he says, and closes his eyes, so turned on he can’t breathe for a long moment.

“I am still better at this,” T'Challa says, and rolls Sam over, grabbing his pants up off the floor and retrieving some lube and a condom from the pocket. He gets his slick fingers inside of Sam and he’s not wrong; as good as he is, sometimes, with words, his fingers are even more expressive. Sam fucking loves a good fingering, and T'Challa does it perfectly, holding him tight and kissing his mouth with sloppy kisses while he strokes into Sam’s ass. 

What might be a long time later – Sam’s not really sure – T'Challa lays Sam down on his back and fucks him, slow and hard and forever. Sam groans encouragement and lifts his hips to meet him, T'Challa’s strength and power crashing down onto him like a wave, over and over, until it’s all that’s ever existed, this gorgeous endless fucking, the two of them in perfect synch. 

“Let go,” Sam says, gripping T'Challa’s shoulders hard, gasping for breath, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. “Let go, come on, give it all to me – ” 

T'Challa damn near screams as he does, and Sam pulls himself up to kiss him, swallowing his sounds and coming around his cock, lost in bright light for a long moment before he finds himself collapsed again on the bed, chest heaving, vision coming back to him.

T'Challa is sprawled half beside him and half on top of him, naked and gleaming, covered in the marks of Sam’s mouth, Sam’s hands, Sam’s fingernails. 

“Just how I wanted you,” Sam sighs, and lets himself melt down into the bed a little. T'Challa laughs into Sam’s shoulder.

“Well-fucked and useless,” he replies. “Now I see it. Now you and Captain Rogers will begin your takeover of Wakanda.”

“Any minute now,” Sam agrees, wondering how long before he’ll be able to move his arms again. 

“The mighty Black Panther will stop you,” T'Challa swears, and now he’s kind of drooling on Sam’s shoulder because he refuses to pick up his head while he talks. Sam giggles, delighted to see T'Challa this loose, joking around like this. Getting laid looks good on him. Sam wants to make him look this good every fucking day.

“I’ll seduce him too,” Sam promises. “Just lemme get my breath back.”

T'Challa looks up at him, then, and smiles broadly, beautifully, so that Sam’s heart aches to see it. “And the king of Wakanda? Will you seduce him as well?”

“Oh sure,” Sam promises, smiling back. He leans in for a quick, soft kiss.

“Then you will be exhausted, having so many lovers to satisfy,” T'Challa says doubtfully. 

“Yeah, I don’t know when I’ll have the energy to actually take over the country.”

“And so I will win,” T'Challa replies, smugly, nestling in against Sam’s shoulder with a satisfied sigh. Sam rolls his eyes and wraps his arms around him.

“You’re such an asshole,” Sam sighs. “Remind me why I swore an oath of fealty to you again.”

“Why does anyone swear an oath of fealty?” T'Challa replies, easily.

Sam doesn’t have to hear the answer to that question to know it, in his heart.

 _Because they’ve found a home,_ he thinks.


End file.
